


These Are The Masks We Wear

by feministfangirl



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: A little Dub-Con, Aliens Make Them Do It, Drug Use, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Makeup, but not really, but that goes away quickly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feministfangirl/pseuds/feministfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk and Chekov go on an away mission and adhere to the strange customs of an alien King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Are The Masks We Wear

**Author's Note:**

> This pairing is kinda weird to me, partially because McCoy/Chekov is my OTP… but for some reason I was really drawn to this prompt. And it helped me get over my dislike of Kirk as a main character. So thanks storylandqueen (lj), for having such great ideas. Thanks as well to sff_reader (lj), my wonderful beta, and to madeyemax and supersonica for being part of my motivational process. Finally, thanks to enkanowen who came up with the title. She is and will always be my hero.
> 
> Please be aware that Chekov is young in this fic. Like, seventeen young. But who knows: maybe in the future he's already considered an adult. He is working in space, after all.

In retrospect, Kirk probably should have listened to the _entire_ briefing before heading down to Stahl. Surprises were never pleasant, and though he was glad that this wasn’t the kind of surprise that had his shirt in tatters and an injured Ensign slung across his shoulders, he wished he’d been better prepared. All Uhura had time to tell them (before Kirk had waved her off and beamed down to the planet’s surface) was that it was _illegal to appear unadorned before the king_ , which wasn’t as descriptive as Kirk would have liked.

\---

Kirk and Chekov beamed down and were met by Kerra, senior advisor to King Liran, and two male attendants.

“Hello. I’m Captain Kirk of the USS Enterprise. This is Ensign Pavel Chekov.” Chekov nodded in greeting, his posture regulation.

“This is Floran,” said Kerra, gesturing to the man who was currently bowing to Kirk, “and Dior.” Dior followed his counterpart, bowing to both Kirk and Chekov in turn. “They will supervise as you adhere to our customs.”

“What customs are we being made to adhere to, exactly?” asked Kirk.

“It is illegal to appear unadorned before the King,” said Kerra shortly. Kirk knew that part, and wanted  
“Please follow me,” Kirk’s attendant said, and let them through a set of double doors into a larger room. Kerra did not accompany them, and Kirk assumed she would be back when they were prepared. They followed the two men into the room. 

\---

Kirk had assumed they’d give them traditional necklaces made of feathers, or silly hats. Instead, his attendant was explaining to them that they needed to get naked and hop into the first of three baths. Kirk wasn’t shy about getting naked; it was the entire process that bothered him. First a three-step bath, but what came next? Floran kept calling it ‘preparation’, but he wasn’t going into any detail. Kirk was sure that there was a more specific word for the ceremony, but suspected that Floran and Dior had been told to dole it out to them step by step.

Kirk recalled his conversation with Spock before accepting the request from Kerra, the senior advisor to the King. He’d been more concerned about safety and who to bring than the actual logistics of the mission.

 

_“Captain, I am confident that you will be safe when you beam onto Stahl,” said Spock as he followed Kirk’s return to the Captain’s chair. “They are a fairly peaceful people and their planet is without universal defense systems. We will be able to beam you back at the first sign of trouble.”_

_“Sounds good, Spock, except for one thing: I can’t very well take you down there with me.”_

_“It would be unwise, Captain.” Kirk looked out at his bridge crew, and figured it would be best if he took one of them with him. He needed someone he could trust to be professional, courteous and attentive on this mission, not someone who would be getting used to working closely with the Captain. He addressed the entire bridge._

_“Does anyone have a large degree of experience with transporters or technological systems?” It was a shot in the dark, sure, but he wasn’t sure who would be right for the task other than Spock. He didn’t even know what they all had majored in—he knew they were great at what they did, but he didn’t know much about what else they could do. He’d have to work on that._

_“Sir?” said Chekov, raising his hand. “I was top of my class in transporter theory and have had much experience in the hands-on elements of the technology.” Kirk quickly considered the pros and cons of choosing Chekov. It would be the kid’s first away mission. But it was likely to be fairly routine, and Kirk needed someone who knew transporter technology inside and out. Remembering how Chekov had grabbed him and Sulu off of the surface of Vulcan made Kirk sure that he was the right choice._

_“All right, Chekov, you’re in. We won’t need anyone else. Transporter room, be prepared to beam Ensign Chekov and me down in half an hour.”_

 

Chekov didn’t look as sure of himself as he had when they’d stepped onto the transporter pad. The kid had been rattling off complex calculations in a way that made Kirk’s eyes glaze before they had beamed down, but now, his jaw was shut tight and his eyes were steeled. Someone would have to remind Kirk to bring Chekov on more away missions, because he hadn’t yet learned that unfortunately, nothing ever went completely according to plan. They didn’t have to like it—Kirk didn’t—but they did have to go with the flow. And if the flow meant stripping down in front of three aliens intent on scrubbing them down and dressing them up like dolls, he wasn’t about to protest. There were worse things they were conscripted into doing on away missions.

“You’re not shy, are you?” asked Kirk, stripping off his yellow command shirt and swiftly following with the black undershirt. He handed them to the young man standing by, his arms outstretched to receive Kirk’s clothing. Chekov’s eyes flicked to his Captain’s, and his mouth twitched into a smile.

“Of course not, Captain,” said Chekov, following Kirk’s lead and pulling both his shirts over his head in one swift motion. Kirk pulled off his pants and boxer-briefs and slipped into the warm, clear water that filled the large basin. It smelled faintly of something between lemons and strawberries. Kirk looked back at Chekov, who was standing just outside, glancing between the attendants who were neatly folding their clothing. 

“The water’s fine!” said Kirk. Chekov flushed a little, but lost his underwear and scrambled into the tub. At that, the attendants handed them sea sponges and they scrubbed themselves down at their urging. 

Kirk hadn’t shared a bath with another man since he and his brother were kids, but it wouldn’t do to get weird about it now. Not that he had an issue with being naked with another man—he’d done more than just be naked with one in the past—but it brought forwards the implications of he and Chekov being forced about in the nude by the polite-yet-insistent attendants. If the Enterprise beamed them back right now, well. They’d have some explaining to do.

“Next bath,” said Kirk’s attendant, and they didn’t have time to laugh at one another scrambling from the warmth of the first tub and through the cold air before they were settling into the second tub. 

Chekov squeaked when Dior began lathering his hair with fragrant shampoo. Kirk readied himself for the same treatment, and so was not surprised. It was a nice change, to have someone else waiting on him. Floran’s hands were firm and sure on his scalp, and he was probably getting a better wash than he’d ever had. Chekov looked like an unborn chicken with is hair held together by the suds, looking a bit more uncomfortable now than before. Kirk supposed he didn’t like people touching his hair, but this just amused him further. Chekov would not say anything outright, he was a Starfleet officer after all, but Kirk didn’t like to see him squirm. Kirk flicked some water at him, which quickly brought him out of his funk. He smirked slightly, and then kicked gently at Kirk, enough to show camaraderie without insubordination. Kirk was laughing like he was a teenager, splashing a little more at Chekov until he got a bit more retaliation, and their attendants stepped away to avoid their splashing. They’d washed the soap out of their hair after a moment, and finally moved on to the third bath, snickering at their attendants disapproving expressions.

“This is a nice change from sonic showers,” remarked Chekov as they settled into the crisp minty waters of the final bath. 

“I’ve got a water shower,” said Kirk smugly. “Temperature control and everything. Captain’s perks.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Kirk felt like they sounded like a proposition. But luckily, Chekov didn’t seem to notice the suggestive nature of the comment.

“I am jealous,” Chekov told him, with a smile that told Kirk there were no hostile feelings behind the words. Before either man could relax, their attendants were motioning for them to exit. They stood with fluffy grey towels held out for both of them to wrap themselves in. Kirk rubbed at his hair and upper body before slinging the towel around his waist. Chekov had quickly covered his lower half, leaving his hair to drip into his eyes. 

Floran became impatient, and ushered them into the adjacent room. It was much smaller than the last one, with two low tables covered in pillows. 

“Lie down,” Kirk’s attendant told him, and Kirk did so without protest. The pillows were lush and colourful. Chekov was beside him on the other bench—they were barely an arm’s length apart.

Kirk was suddenly aware that they were lying down alone in a room wearing only towels. He thought it amusing that the member of his bridge crew that he was stuck with was the only one he hadn’t entertained lewd thoughts about in a particularly dull Gamma shift. It wasn’t because Kirk didn’t find him attractive; it was just that he was not sure if seventeen was quite old enough to be mentally debauched. So he avoided it when he could, except of course now, when it counted, he kind of wanted to find out if the kid was straight as an arrow or not. But this wasn’t the time or the place for propositioning his subordinates. 

Their attendants returned. The attendants’ faces were now done up in bright, simple make up focused on the eyes and lips. Kirk noted this with interest, as it had been a while since he’d seen a man wear makeup.

Kirk felt something warm on his back and tensed, but it was only the hand of his attendant. His hand was slippery and warm, covered in some kind of oil that smelled of wood. It reminded Kirk of summertime.

“Please relax, Captain Kirk,” the man told him. Kirk noticed a similar conversation happening between Chekov and the attendant. He tried to relax, and found it got easier—he was getting a pretty awesome massage.

Chekov let out a hiss of pain that knocked Kirk out of his relaxed state. But nothing had changed—it was purely the effects of the massage. Kirk snickered, and Chekov turned his head so he could look at his Captain.

“Is not funny,” said Chekov. “He has a firm hand.”

“Suuuure,” muttered Kirk. “We’re not all quite so fragi—ow!” His attendant had chosen that moment to dig into a knot below his left shoulder. Chekov laughed. After that, they lapsed into silence as they were both deeply relaxed by the attendant’s strong hands. Kirk had a fleeting moment where he wondered what Floran would be like in bed—but the fact that Chekov was in the room distracted him, and he knew it wouldn’t do to have sex with the subordinates while the King was waiting. Stunts like that got them locked up or running for their lives down the side of a mountain. So he tucked it away, behind his inappropriate Chekov-related thoughts.

After the massage, Kirk and Chekov were ushered into a sauna. The room was made of wood and stone, and warmer than anywhere either of them had been in a long time. They sat two feet apart on the wooden bench. They were unsure how long this stage of the ‘preparation’ would last, but they believed it would not be too long.

“I assume,” began Chekov, after a few minutes of silence broken only by the sound of the steam, “that not all away missions are this…”

“Easy?” supplied Kirk. “Comfortable? Fun?”

“Yes,” Chekov replied. “I was expecting much work. So far, I have done none.”

“What can I say?” Kirk told him. “You got lucky. Usually we have to jump through worse hoops than this for a leader much more guarded. King Liran is of a rare breed.” Chekov seemed to accept this, and they lapsed into silence again. The sauna dampened Chekov’s recently dried hair so his curls lay flat against his forehead. Kirk wanted to twirl the life back into the young Ensign’s hair, but he wasn’t sure if Chekov would appreciate it. So Kirk kept his hands to himself, and let the sauna suck any feelings of stress out of him, right down to the bone.

“Captain?” started Chekov again.

“Yes, Ensign?” 

“Are we always this accommodating when it comes to a planet’s customs?” 

“Only when we have the luxury,” Kirk responded with a slight smirk. Chekov was always learning, always seeking more information. Kirk admired that trait in him. He wondered how else it might manifest itself.

“Captain Kirk? Ensign Chekov?” Floran poked his head into the room. “Please follow me.” The two men followed without hesitation. They were led into a room much like the previous one: small and colourful. It was opulent and filled with plush pillows and low benches. Along one wall was a wide mirror with a bench in front of it, the perfect height for someone sitting before it.

Chekov sat down at once. His shyness from earlier forgotten, he took the towel from around his waist and rubbed his hair. Kirk tried not to look, but the kid was well built and sometimes Kirk just wanted to check out the competition. He wasn’t exactly looking to bone the kid, just curious about what he was packing. And just before Chekov turned away to accept the pile of colourful fabric that Dior was handing him, Kirk got a glimpse. Chekov was _packing_. Kirk looked away, grinning to himself.

Floran handed him his own set of colourful clothing and Kirk inspected it with interest. He was used to having to wear the weird clothing of the natives of any given planet, and these weren’t the worst of the outfits. At least they covered their asses. He’d once had to wear what was basically a big ribbon, wrapped creatively around his private areas. It had been a bitch to walk in. 

The clothing was simply colourful fabric wrapped across the chest, connected to large flowing pants. They were impossibly bright in gold and orange and purple. Chekov’s was in the same colours, but his was more purple where Kirk’s was more gold. Kirk was struggling into his outfit while his attendant was busy across the room, setting up something with little cups that tinkled like wind chimes. Chekov’s attendant was correctly securing Chekov’s outfit while Kirk struggled to keep from unraveling. At last, his attendant returned to wrap the cloth properly, for which Kirk was grateful.

“So,” said Kirk into the awkwardly silent room. “Is this it? We’re prepared to see King Liran now?” But his attendant shook his head. Chekov frowned, but didn’t say anything.

“You must still drink the nostrum,” Floran said. He was obviously the more talkative of the two—Kirk had only seen Chekov’s attendant speak when he was asking the ensign to relax during the earlier massage. “And you must apply your makeup.”

“Makeup?” said Kirk. “What, like yours?”

“Yes sir.” Chekov’s eyebrows were creeping towards his hairline, but Kirk just shrugged.

“Alright, fine. Give us the drink and apply the makeup, and then we’ll see the King.” 

“You must apply the makeup yourselves,” Kirk’s attendant said. “It is a very intimate process. We will return in a little while to take you to see the King.” They left. 

Chekov was pouring himself a cup of the tea Kirk’s attendant had left on the table before the mirror. Kirk crossed the room to stand beside Chekov, and took the cup Chekov offered to him. One sip and Kirk shuddered, putting the cup back on the tray.

“Blech,” he said, wrinkling his nose and sitting down. “I hate tea.”

“I like it,” said Chekov, taking a long drink from his own cup and sitting beside Kirk. “It reminds me of home.” Kirk smiled slightly at him, and then turned to face the mirror.

On the table were open containers of colourful powder and paste. Kirk looked at his own face in the mirror. His hair was sticking up funny; his face wasn’t as close shaven as it could have been; his eyes had bags underneath them from lack of sleep, but nothing he wasn’t used to. He’d look ridiculous in makeup. But he already felt ridiculous in the clothes, and it was no worse than anything else he’d done in the name of his ship’s mission. He made quick work of the make up, applying orange to his eyelids and following it with a heavy nimbus of gold. Back home, even ladies of the night didn’t wear this much sparkly face make up, but the attendants had worn something similar to what Kirk was able to approximate, and so he thought it would be effective. He moved on to the lips, swiping purple across the corners of his mouth and gold in the middle. Satisfied, he turned to face Chekov.

Chekov was staring at him, his blue eyes round and shiny. The kid’s cup was empty, unlike Kirk’s, and his face was unadorned.

“Chekov, get to it, we need to go.” Chekov’s eyes flicked from their place lower on Kirk’s face to meet his eyes. The younger man’s eyebrows rose as if they would meet in the middle and he shrugged. “…You’ve never applied makeup, have you?” Kirk asked him. The kid shook his head. Kirk let out a sigh, but flashed Chekov a smile that told him _Relax, I’ve got this_. Kirk moved so he was straddling the bench and shifted forwards so his knees were touching Chekov’s leg. He pulled the Ensign’s face so he was looking directly at him. Chekov shifted so that he was half-facing Kirk.

Kirk decided that Chekov’s make up would consist of more gold than his. He carefully applied the gold to Chekov’s eyelids, and then around until right below his eyebrows. Chekov obediently kept his eyes shut, but kept licking his lips in a way that Kirk found quite distracting. Kirk added purple to the boy’s face, his left hand at his jaw to hold him still. Finally, he finished with the glittery spectacle of his eyes and moved on to his lips. He applied the makeup so it was the opposite of his own: gold at the outer corners and purple in the middle. He rubbed the pad of his thumb in the purple paste and rubbed the resulting colour over the centre of Chekov’s lips. The movement opened Chekov’s mouth a little. Kirk caught hold of Chekov’s chin and held it still while he pressed harder to get rid of all the purple on his thumb.

And then the soft wet tip of Chekov’s tongue was pressing gently against his thumb. Instantly, Kirk remembered every tiny illicit thought that had been creeping through his mind over the course of the mission, and was trying desperately not to react. He looked at his hand at the kid’s mouth, and then flicked his eyes up to meet Chekov’s.

“Sorry,” Chekov mumbled into the pad of his thumb, his eyes glassy and blown, wide as the expanse of space. He looked high. Not chasing invisible bunnies down the hall high, but at least a little more buzzed than he should have been on duty. It must have been the tea. 

If Kirk thought Chekov’s tongue was distracting, he really wasn’t prepared for the feeling of the kid’s teeth scraping against his thumb, light but fucking sensual. It went straight to his cock. Kirk’s eyes widened a little as Chekov dragged his lower teeth over Kirk’s thumb, and then nibbled lightly at the tip until his purpled lips closed over it. And as gently as a kiss, Chekov pushed Kirk’s thumb out of his mouth.

Kirk met Chekov’s eyes again. They were wide, too bright, and Kirk felt like he was taking advantage, but he was as much being drawn in as Chekov was. They leaned in close, closer: until they were too close to deny what was about to happen. Chekov’s eyes fluttered shut and a little shower of gold dust fell to his cheeks. Kirk looked at Chekov’s lips and they parted, anticipating Kirk’s forward movement.

Movement from somewhere in his peripheral vision made Kirk pull away in a hurry, and was glad for it when both attendants came through the door that had just opened. Chekov sat back, his eyes still quite wide, slowly licking his lips, chasing a taste that wasn’t there. When he noticed the other occupants of the room, he came back to himself a little bit.

“You are prepared?” asked Kirk’s attendant. He and Chekov shuffled further apart and Kirk turned to face him. His attendant nodded in satisfaction upon seeing the makeup on both the men’s faces. “Good. We will go now.”

\---

Their meeting with King Liran was painfully brief compared to the preparation they had made for it. In the end, it came down to Chekov proving his intelligence (despite the strange tea), and Kirk swearing that they were trustworthy. And then Chekov was whisked away while Kirk and the King made small talk and ate lunch.

No more than half an hour after he’d been taken away, Chekov had returned. He was his usual cheerful self as he, Dior, and King Liran’s best scientists returned. They spoke like they were old friends.

“…interesting methods. We do not keep a copy of everyone who has traveled through our transporters, only the last person, and only sometimes is it extractable. You are very clever.” 

“Chekov!” Kirk exclaimed, sitting up a little in his seat. “You’re back. Did something go wrong?”

“No Captain,” said Chekov quickly, looking at Kirk no differently than he had any of the other people in the room. “We are finished. It was a simple matter of effective routing of power. Otherwise, this system is near perfect. It would rival ours, Captain.” Kirk stared at him a moment longer, and then shook his head. He must have imagined it, before, the almost-kiss. It was probably just a normal encounter, and that weird tea had made both of them confused. He turned to face King Liran.

“King Liran, it was a pleasure.” He bowed deeply, and Chekov did as well. But Kirk was antsy, wanted to get out of these strange clothes and back into the comfort of his own clothes and his own ship so that his mind would return to normal. He’d be able to get rid of the faint lewd thoughts that were going through his head, or at least direct them at more welcome prey.

Kirk led the way back into the room where they had changed, and quickly began stripping off the top half of what was becoming an increasingly annoying outfit. He didn’t wait to see if Chekov had followed him, and didn’t look over when he heard the telltale sound of Chekov changing as well. One of the attendants had brought their uniforms into the room. Kirk grabbed his and started pulling his pants on as soon as he got the offending colourful clothing away. For a moment, there was only the sound of both men changing their clothes. Then Kirk had a feeling like something was wrong. He hopped, pulling up his pants, and found that they were too small. Standing on one foot, Kirk turned to face Chekov. Chekov broke into a fit of giggles at Kirk’s confused expression and the fact that he had Chekov’s pants bunched around his thighs. Chekov, in turn, was wearing only Kirk’s black undershirt. While it was big for him, it was nowhere near as comical as Kirk. Kirk was annoyed for a moment, bristling with embarrassment, but then he relented a little, realizing how hard he would laugh if it had been anyone else. He managed a sidelong smirk and then shimmied out of Chekov’s pants, tossing them right at his head to stifle the strangled laughter.

“Give me my shirt,” said Kirk. He walked over to where Chekov was sitting, double over with laughter pains, and tugged at the collar of the shirt. Chekov took a moment to stop laughing, but stripped off the shirt without hesitation. Then, he looked up at Kirk. It took a moment, but then Kirk was aware that they were both there in nothing but boxers. He snatched his shirt out of Chekov’s hand and turned quickly, hoping the kid hadn’t noticed his semi-hard prick. The room fell into stony silence again as the two dressed. Something hung in the air between them, something that Kirk wasn’t sure he wanted to bring into words. The ones that ghosted through his mind at the mere thought of it included _abuse of power_ and _too young_. He wasn’t sure if the guilt would get worse or lessen if he moved to do what they’d almost done when his hands were adorning the smooth planes of Chekov’s face. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

He quickly rubbed at his face with a wet cloth that had been left. When he took it away, it was streaked in colour. He could see Chekov’s reflection in the mirror, rubbing furiously at his lips to pull the purple away. It stained; it had done the same to Kirk. He tried not to watch as Chekov’s fingers wiped away what Kirk had put there with such care. He tried not to want to be the one to be cleaning him, bringing him from his adorned state back into their regimented reality. His pants were uncomfortable again before he realized he’d failed.

“Enterprise,” Kirk said into his communicator, once he was sure they were both ready. “Two to beam up.”

\---

That night, after he had stayed through two bridge shifts and then been kicked out by Spock, Kirk lay in bed alone staring up at the ceiling and desperately wishing he wasn’t hard as a rock. Every time his hand drifted downwards, trying desperately to think about a girl from his youth, or the extremely attractive Nurse Chapel, or Spock, or any other memberof his bridge crew, Chekov’s pretty face and bare neck and wide blue eyes would swim before his eyes. He flirted with the idea that they had done something to them down on Stahl, but quickly scrapped it. It had been all _him_ , him leaning over Chekov, him applying the makeup to his face, him leering over him, debauching him in his mind--!

There had to be something wrong with Kirk, cause he hadn’t come from so little stimulation in a very long time, and the fact that he’d come over his fist after one guilty pump was bad. He fumbled off to the side of his bed and managed to find a couple tissues. He wiped himself up as best he could and then lay back again, only slightly more comfortable than he had been before. Images of Chekov were still floating unbidden in his mind. McCoy’s voice was in his mind’s ear, saying “Oh good, he’s seventeen,” and of course Kirk wasn’t a little turned on by that thought too.

“You are one sick son of a bitch,” Kirk said aloud. “You may be sex on legs,” he continued, displaying the extent of his modesty, “but you can’t sleep with _everyone_.” 

“Impossible, yes,” came a voice from the front room of his quarters. “But you are still free to try.” Kirk sat bolt upright, torn between a quick attack and hiding. It was quickly too late, as Chekov rounded the corner and leaned against the doorway. He was dressed in flannel pajamas. Kirk scrambled to pull the blanket back over himself, to hide both his stirring cock and the obvious tissues lying on the mattress.

“Entering the Captain’s quarters without permission is a punishable offence,” Kirk squeaked. He hadn’t been so nervous naked since his first time with a guy, when he was worried about comparing pricks and liberal use of lube. 

“I know, Captain,” Chekov told him, stepping closer, his fingers working in the dark. Kirk couldn’t tell what he was doing until he could see the unbroken slope of Chekov’s shoulder. “I expect you to punish me as you see fit.” Kirk swore. Chekov pushed the shirt off and let it stay where it landed on the floor. Then he set his knee on the foot of Kirk’s bed. Kirk shuffled backwards as Chekov got closer, but he ran out of ground before Chekov reached him.

“Wait,” he protested weakly. “We shouldn’t. I… you…” His brain went fuzzy as he was suddenly rewarded with a lap full of pretty boy. He struggled to form words as Chekov pressed his face against his neck, breath warm like his body. “Ensign/Captain is generally frowned on by the Fleet.”

“No one needs to know,” whispered Chekov against Kirk’s neck, where his tongue was now tracing a lazy pattern. “We are not going to be skipping down corridors, holding hands. Is sex. Is private.” 

“Unhnnn…” groaned Kirk. “Yes. Except you’re so young.” Chekov sat up a little, giving Kirk a chance to breathe and to really feel the weight of the man straddling him, to notice the way his legs shook a little. Kirk suppressed the urge to steady them and kept his hands to himself.

“We almost kissed before,” Chekov said. “Twice. You want me. At least a little bit.”

“Yes,” breathed Kirk.

“Why not now?” Chekov continued. “Just…” He took Kirk’s hand and brought it to his face. He took the soft pad of Kirk’s thumb into his mouth and sucked lightly. Kirk watched with wide eyes as his thumb disappeared between lush lips and hissed a little when Chekov let his teeth scrape against the edge of it. As Chekov’s eyes fluttered shut, reminiscent of the flutter of gold makeup, Kirk raised his other hand and ran his fingers slowly along the young man’s eyelids and cheekbones.

“Chekov,” Kirk breathed. Chekov’s response was a small moan around Kirk’s thumb. “Chekov,” he repeated, pulling his thumb gently away. Chekov let it go with a pout. 

There was a pause. Kirk stared at Chekov, and he stared back. Chekov’s eyebrows slowly began to knit together in the fear of rejection, and the expression somewhere between sexy and crushed made Kirk surge forwards and capture his lips. The kiss was hard, bruising, and resulted in a lap full of writhing Russian, but Kirk was not complaining.

“Okay,” he breathed, working his hand into the front of Chekov’s pajama bottoms. “Just this once.” The sound Chekov made at this was so damn _hot_ , Kirk wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to keep that resolution.


End file.
